Expecto Ludum
by HugzForFree
Summary: Quinn, a Literature major, also a columnist for her University's paper, attends a rally organized by the most passionate woman she's ever seen. As a headstrong activist, who's an African American Studies major, Santana challenges Quinn in a way she's never been challenged. Even though Santana thinks of Quinn as the "enemy" she can't seem to get the other girl out of her head.


**Warning: If talk about race issues makes you upset or uncomfortable this is definitely not for you. Like, at all. DO NOT read if you're sensitive to this subject. Also, don't read if smut makes you uncomfortable.**

* * *

><p>At the podium, Santana Lopez has everyone's rapt attention. Quinn stares in awe at the girl's raw passion. She glances around the crowd for maybe the fifth time to see that she isn't the only one captivated by Santana's intense and compelling speech. This isn't the first rally of Santana's that Quinn has attended and it definitely won't be the last. She feels so inspired and she almost can't wait until she steps off the student-built stage to have a moment alone with her.<p>

Twenty minutes later Quinn no longer has to wait and seizes the opportunity when she sees Santana finally breaking apart from a throng of her admirers.

"That was quite a speech, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you think white people are the devil," Quinn observes, a few steps behind Santana.

"They are," she says, not even bothering to turn around, increasing her pace. After a few more steps, she turns her head ever so slightly. "Why are you following me?"

A tad bit thrown off, she finally finds her voice. "I'm Quinn Fabray, I'm a columnist for Yale Daily News, and I'd like to interview you."

Santana stops, turns on her heels and looks Quinn up and down. "Sure, tell your editor to send a black journalist, or a Hispanic one, I'm not picky. That's if Yale Daily News even has a black or Hispanic student working there." With a scowl on her lips and a furrowed brow, she narrowed her eyes. "Do they?"

"You won't talk to be because I'm white?"

"Look at you getting a good education here. You're very smart," Santana mocked. "Look, I don't want some privileged white girl who's probably used to getting everything she wants, interviewing me. You'll probably twist my words around or cast me in a poor light."

"Santana, I attended your rally today not just because of the paper, but because I support your cause. I think what you're doing is amazing," she shared with unfiltered admiration.

"Heard it all before, blondie. You know what you have? White guilt. You don't care about our 'cause'," she said, adding air quotes with her leather glove covered fingers. "You just see another trend to jump on. You think you're a decent person because you 'care' about all the black people being unjustly murdered but really all you'll do is shake your head, feel sorry for us, and turn your TV off returning to your privileged, carefree life. This isn't a cause, it's our life. You feel 'bad' today, sure, but try walking around this country with brown skin. This isn't some bandwagon to jump on, this is our fucking life." With that she stalks off, her boots hitting the snow-covered earth a little harder than needed.

Quinn's dumbfounded, she didn't expect Santana to be so hostile towards her therefore she wasn't prepared for this kind of reaction. Sure, she's had a few people not interested in participating but this is something wholly different.

Once her feet start working, she catches up with the activist. "How dare you presume to know anything about me or how I feel about the racial climate in our country! Besides you aren't black yet here you are fighting, standing up for what you believe in."

Santana whips around so fast that Quinn has to take a step back. The girl has death in her eyes.

"Firstly, my mom is black and my dad's Puerto Rican, so according to you whites, I'm black. You know, that whole one drop rule? Secondly you're white so I'm not assuming anything. You have no idea what it feels like to turn your TV on to see that yet another black man or woman has been murdered simply for the color of their skin. And then to have those people justify their murder by putting their Facebook pics with them holding their middle finger up." Her head shook as her eyes close. They opened and she stepped closer, continuing animatedly. "Or making outlandish claims that they must have rob someone or committed a crime just before they ran into some cop. So of course they deserved to die! You have no fucking clue what it feels like to watch a man get murdered after repeating he can't fucking breathe eleven fucking times and have that murderer walk free. You have not a single clue what it feels like to see people donate only thirty six thousand dollars to that man's family while the cops that are running around using their badges to kill innocent people get donations upwards of half a million dollars. Or how about what it feels like to see dozens and dozens of celebrities pour fucking ice water on their heads to raise awareness but barely any of them are saying boo about blacks being slain! You have no idea what it feels like to be terrified you're next!" she yelled, shoving her finger in Quinn's face. "Or maybe you're father or your brother or your best friend! White people are shit and I'm not going to stand here and talk to one a second longer."

"Not all white people," Quinn says to Santana's back.

They're face to face again in a flash. "And therein lies the motherfuckin problem, blondie. Okay, you're right. Not all white people are racists piece of shits, not all white people want us dead. Okay. But _every_ brown person has to face discrimination of some kind from a white person. All minorities have to put up with the white majorities' bullshit! I'm so sick of you white people saying 'all lives matter', do you show up to people's funerals and yell in the faces of the grieving saying 'hey, someone I loved died too, stop crying'! No! Fuck you. You're just as much a part of the problem as the people who hate us."

She once again walks off, but this time, Quinn doesn't have it in her to stop her.

Santana throws an "Asshole" over her shoulder before she disappears around a corner.

* * *

><p>"Are you kidding me?" Matt asks with a big smile on his face.<p>

"I really wish I was. Could you please try to get the interview, Matt? Even though she's a prejudice bitch, I still really want to get that article on her," Quinn expresses sullenly. She was still reeling from her unsavory encounter with Santana.

"Wait," Sam says from his corner of the newsroom. "She hates whites, isn't that racist?"

"No, Sam. Racism is based upon oppression and a belief of superiority. You can't be racist against whites. But prejudice, for sure. You should have seen the look of disgust in her eyes."

"Don't worry boss, I'll get that interview," Matt says while gathering his belongings in his backpack.

"Stop calling me boss," Quinn had told him this before but after her conversation (if you could even call it that) with Santana, she just feels weird now.

"But you're the editor, you're the boss," he smiles that big, goofy smile of his.

"Seriously, Matt, I'd really prefer it if you didn't call me that. I'm not your boss, we all work together in here. As equals," Quinn said, trying to make her case as she titled her swivel chair backwards.

"Whatever you say, boss."

Her eyes roll as he basically skips towards the door. She briefly wonders how he manages to always be so upbeat.

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

Her words sloshed around her head before she lets them out. "Why did you come here, to an mostly white school, I mean. An education is an education, no matter where you get your degree from," she reasoned.

"Yeah, but an Ivy League degree opens more doors." He winked and waved goodbye to Sam before walking out the door.

"Why don't you just write the article anyway?"

"Without the interview?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugged as if she should have thought of this herself.

"Because I really want to talk to her. You should have seen how passionate she was. It was beyond amazing," she said as she stared past Sam. "I can't imagine what an interview would be like. I'm sure quite enthralling."

"Are you...do you have a crush on her?"

"What?! God, no! How could I like someone who hates me?"

"What if she didn't hate you?"

"I don't have a crush on her, Sam, so shut up."

"Yeah right," he started, his tone telling her he wasn't buying what she was selling. "Sure you don't."

In truth she couldn't say for sure whether or not she was "crushing" on her. Of course she has eyes that work so she can clearly see how beautiful the girl is. And her intelligence, intellect, and passion are all attractive qualities. But Quinn chalks her admiration for the girl up to what Santana stands for, albeit, a little misguided. The girl doesn't even know Quinn. They've had exactly one interaction and for the majority of it, Santana was yelling at Quinn about how evil white people are. Maybe she shouldn't have said not all white people are bad but she didn't know how else to defend herself. She surely isn't racist; in fact it makes her sick to think of all the horrible, racially motivated, murders that have occurred since Michael Brown. She'd hopped on a plane the first free moment she could to go protest, and she wasn't the only white person. There were plenty; even white people are sick of white people at this point.

Santana was right about one thing, there were countless celebrities who used their fame as a platform to raise ALS awareness but most have stayed quiet about the unjustified murders in the country. Then Quinn remembered Santana saying something about the vast difference of donations between cops and the slain, so she googled how much these cops have gotten and how much Eric Garner's family had gotten. Of course Santana was right, and it made Quinn sick. She leaned back in her chair again thinking, what more can she do to be a part of the solution. Or is attempting to think of a solution at all simply wishful thinking?

* * *

><p>On a cold Friday evening, Quinn was sat in the newsroom by her lonesome. Everyone else had dispersed much earlier to get a jumpstart on his or her weekend. Quinn considered getting everything finished, tied up in a pretty bow, as <em>her<em> jumpstart on the weekend. Mondays are bad enough without having unfinished work to catch up on. When the door slammed open, Quinn damn near jumped out her skin. A very beautiful, very angry looking Santana Lopez stormed right up to her desk, depositing yesterday's edition of the Daily News forcefully on her desk.

_Okay, maybe I have a slight crush on her, maybe. But God she's so gorgeous, it's not like that's my fault._

With the paper, a few water droplets landed on Quinn and a few items in front of her. She looked up and saw snowflakes melting on Santana's hat.

"Santana, what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What the fuck, blondie?"

"Problem?"

"Yeah, I have a huge fuckin problem!" She unwraps her black scarf and puts that on Quinn's desk too.

"Which is?"

"Don't play dumb!" She slips her gloves off, finger by finger. "I thought I told you I didn't want you writing about me."

"No, you said you didn't want me _interviewing_ you," she corrected her. Thanks to Matt's method of interviewing, she had over two hours of amazing sound bites from Santana. He knew how much she wanted the article, so he handed the recording, along with his notes, over to her.

"Same thing," she exclaimed as she slid the zipper of her leather jacket down then placed her hands on her hips.

"I beg to differ," she said with an extra helping of smug.

"You're begging for me to kick your little boney ass. Where's your editor, I wanna talk to them."

"And what exactly is that going to accomplish, Santana?"

"I must have some rights here, I didn't want you writing on me, yet you did," her head on a swivel as she looked around for where the editor might be. "That must be some kind of violation. Where's your editor?"

Staring at Santana for maybe a few seconds longer than she should she sighs then shakes her head, licks her lips then pushes away from her desk.

"I'll be right back."

After about five minutes of checking and answering emails, Quinn goes back in, extending her hand.

"Hi, Quinn Fabray, editor of Yale Daily News, how may I help you?"

"You've got to be fuckin kidding me." At this point she's beyond exasperated and Quinn hopes she wasn't serious about kicking her ass. She sat back down and looked up into those deep, fiery eyes.

"What's the problem, Santana? You said you didn't want me twisting your words. Did I?" She asks, spreading her arms out, her palms facing the ceiling. "You said you didn't want me casting you in a bad light. Did I do that? The answer is no. I think I wrote an extremely flattering, insightful article on you and your only hang up is that it was me who wrote it."

"Fuck you."

"Okay, well that's helpful," putting her elbows on her desk and leaning forward, she flashed Santana a smile. "Come on, you liked the piece, didn't you?"

"You knew I didn't want you writing this. I think I might have to take this to the Dean," she threatened.

"And say what? Go in there screaming bloody murder because a white person wrote an article on you? You'll look foolish. Santana, we don't have to be enemies. I truly do care about what's going on in our country. I think it's disgusting and I'm nothing like them. Now don't get me wrong, I know that the standards for being a 'good white person' are very low, considering, but I promise you, I'm not your enemy. I'm sorry I've upset you but I was dying to write this. I admire you greatly, Santana."

Through her whole speech, Santana's facial expression of hate mixed with disgust didn't waver, but Quinn foolishly hoped that she'd gotten through to her.

"Whatever," was her response. She picked up her scarf and gloves, and then she was gone.

* * *

><p>Whichever God in heaven, allowed for another week to fly by without anymore run ins with the angriest person Quinn had ever met. The Dean hadn't contacted her so she assumed Santana decided to drop her vendetta for now. Luckily she'd gotten out of the newsroom much earlier than normal, so she was lying on her bed staring at the ceiling trying to get Santana out of her head. What the hell is it about the girl that hates her guts that she just can't seem to shake. She'd give anything to get in her good graces but something tells her unless she magically becomes someone who isn't white, that's not gonna happen. Stacey, her very social roommate (something she was grateful for as it gave her ample time to herself) came into the room with one of her classmates. Somehow Quinn's mastered the art of tuning people out so she doesn't register Stacey talking until she's standing above her head.<p>

"What's that?"

"Come out with us, you're so boring, come not be boring."

Sarcastically, Quinn tells her she's very eloquent then declines the invitation. Stacey's classmate, who's name Quinn has no interest in remembering, started ragging on her right along with Stacey. With little interest, she inquires as to where they're going and the friend says some club that just opened up about thirty minutes away. There was no way Quinn was going, clubs aren't her scene and she tells them as much but she might as well been holding a conversation with two bars of soap because they ignored her and started going through her closest for something to wear. After deciding that nothing she owns is club worthy, Stacey insists she borrow one of her dresses. It's black, short, and tight and a little while later she has no idea how she ended up in it. Looking in the mirror was unreal, her hair was up and her face had makeup on it and the two girls were drinking whiskey to do something called pre gaming? After declining a drink several times the girl whose name she still didn't know managed to get her to drink two shots; she suddenly understood pre gaming.

The club was loud and dark and the attendees were mostly from Yale but there were enough strangers to blend in. They found two of Stacey's friends at a table that had just enough seats for the five of them and ordered a round of beers. Surveying the club, after two beers and being abandoned by the only people she actually knows here, she spotted her. Santana was in the middle of the dance floor wearing the tightest cobalt blue dress Quinn had ever seen. Her normally slightly wavy hair was in loopy curls flowing well below her breasts. She was moving to a prefect rhythm to a song Quinn couldn't name, and damn could she move. Suddenly her heart seized while her lungs shrunk and she needed a drink in the worst kind of way.

The fact that Santana wasn't dancing with anyone made her all the more appealing. She just spun around all alone, seemingly in her own world, any would be suitor got shut down with a wink and a shake of her head, as she continued to dance. Three songs later it seemed as if the boys had given up. Poetic Justice by Kendrick Lamar started playing and Santana's face lit up like it's her favorite song. When he said put your hands up high, Santana's lean arms raised above her as her hips circled and she lowered her body.

Should Quinn stop staring? Maybe. Should she stop herself from walking to where Santana danced? Probably. Should she turn around before her hands grab her hips and she starts moving in perfect sync with the woman who'd rather see her head on a stick than dance with her? Definitely. Unfortunately she couldn't take her eyes off her and after drinking what was left of her third beer she got up and made her way through the crowd. For a split second she considered turning around but then Santana put her hands above her head again as soon as Drake's verse started and Quinn put her hands on the woman she can't stop thinking about.

Santana only stopped dancing for a millisecond, then her and Quinn were moving together in a way she hadn't even let herself imagine. Figuring she'd see hate in her eyes, she was surprised to see something else, something like respect. It seemed like Santana was a little thrown and a lot impressed by Quinn's gumption. They danced like that for a long while, slowly, sensually. She wasn't sure how many songs had played or what they even were because all she could hear was her heart thumping. At one point Santana turned Quinn around and pressed her pelvis into her ass while running her hands slowly, up and down her sides. When Quinn turned back around she was embarrassed by her ruined underwear. Once she found the courage to turn Santana around too, the girl pulled away and dissolved into the crowd, leaving Quinn humming with desire. She stood there looking in the direction Santana went but her eyes didn't find her. She swallowed hard and went back to her table where two of the four other girls were sitting, sipping amber liquid.

"Damn girl, who was the hotty you were dancing up on?"

"No one, just some girl," she said, turning her head, looking for her.

"I didn't know you pulled bad girls like that, she was hot enough to turn every girl in here."

Quinn giggled at how sincere her roommate sounded and grabbed the drink she was holding, downing the rest of it.

"Hey!"

Stacey said something else but she paid no attention as her eyes scanned the club again, the burn of Stacey's drink still stinging her throat.

* * *

><p>Hot, sweaty, and <em>very<em> sexually frustrated, Quinn grabbed her coat and stepped outside for a little air. The sound of high heels assaulting the pavement made her head turn. She caught the back of Santana's head turning onto the street where the parking lot was. Running after this girl was stupid, she knew it but that didn't stop her feet from carrying her to that parking lot. Santana had just pulled her keys out her clutch and the lights of a charcoal grey Mustang came to life.

"Santana!" The girl stopped, Quinn couldn't see her face clearly but she looked possibly agitated. "Wait…"

"What?" Her face turned impassive so Quinn took that as a somewhat good sign.

"Why'd you run away like that?"

"I didn't run away, I walked. And because I was tired of dancing." Her arms folded over her ever-present leather jacket. She tapped her foot impatiently. "What do you want, Quinn?"

"You know my name? I'm honored."

"I don't have time for your shit," she turned away, opening her car door.

"Hold on a sec,"

"What, Quinn?"

"Could I maybe catch a ride back to campus with you?"

She turned her head towards her car then back to Quinn, "I've never let a whitey in my car and I'm not starting tonight, call a cab."

"Santana, stop being a asshole and give me a ride."

There was that look again, like she admired Quinn for not putting up with her shit.

"Hurry up and get in before I change my mind."

A full five minutes of silence passed before Quinn felt awkward. "Maybe you wanna turn the radio on?"

"I don't fuck with the radio. Bitches with butt shots and heavy doses of culture appropriation are the ones with number one hits, and Macklemore is winning Grammys over Kendrick Lamar and I really could go on as to why I don't fuck with mainstream music."

"Kendrick is mainstream," Quinn reasoned.

"I've been fuckin with Kendrick since he went by K-Dot, he _just_ became mainstream, everybody else is late." Santana flipped her hair over her shoulder exposing her neck and Quinn almost lost her resolve to stay on her side of the car.

"Okay, well," she swallowed. "Have any CDs?"

"I don't listen to music while I drive."

"Ever?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"It's distracting," the tip of her tongue moved from one side of her upper lip to the other and yet again, Quinn almost did something inappropriate

Quinn used the fact that Santana was a safe driver to her advantage; she stared at the girl who had both hands on the wheel. At first she attempted to do it subtly, but just didn't give a damn and turned her head fully. She'd never seen a profile so beautiful, her nose, lips, her eyelashes.

_Fuck, I've never thought about someone's eyelashes before. The hell is wrong with me?_

At a red light, Santana turned to Quinn. "Stop staring."

"I can't help it," she whispered.

"Am I the first black person you've been this close to?"

"No. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, how do you expect me to stop staring?"

Something interesting happened then, she saw something on Santana's face she'd never seen before; modesty. She looked away with and impatient grimace as she stared at the red light.

"Why'd you really leave me on that dance floor?"

"I just realized, I have no idea which dorm you live in," she stated, ignoring the question

"Take me back to yours," suggested Quinn, boldly.

Santana didn't react this time. "I live off campus, blondie."

"Well then take me there." It must have been the alcohol that made her so courageous.

"I'm not taking you to my apartment, so just…which one's yours?"

"I won't tell anyone,"

"There isn't anything to tell."

"Santana…"

"Are you drunk?"

"You need an explanation as to why I want to go home with you? There are at least three mirrors near you. Take a look, that's all the explaining you'll need."

"I think you want to be able to tell your stupid friends what it's like to be with an exotic girl. I won't be some fantasy fulfilled for you."

"Your ethnic background isn't why I fantasize about you."

It was subtle but she was so focused on the girl sitting beside her that she couldn't miss how she shifted in her seat. "We hate each other," she reasoned.

Quinn could only laugh. "No, you hate _me_, for absolutely no reason. How about this, I live in Edwards. You could take me there or take me to your apartment, your choice. But just for informational purposes, I have a roommate."

Santana huffed but said nothing else, turning onto the long road that lead back to school. A slow smile appeared on Quinn's lips as they passed the campus. When Santana pulled into a parking space and killed the ignition, she unbuckled her seat belt and faced Quinn.

"You can get rid of the pompous fucking face," she said with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry," Quinn offered with no real penitence. "But this is jubilance you're seeing."

"Yeah whatever. This is only happening because I'm horny and you were there," as she said it, she licked her lips like she was starving and someone just sat a plate of food in front of her. If she's half as hungry as she looks, then Quinn can't wait to be her meal. "Come on, blondie."

Quinn grabbed Santana's arm before she could exit the car. "Quinn, my name is Quinn."

Santana wordlessly opened her door. Quinn followed her to what appeared to be the back entrance, then to the elevator. They said nothing as she pressed the seven and the suspense was killing Quinn.

The ride seemed to take forever and to make matters worse, she felt like she was dripping through her underwear. The mere anticipation of being with Santana had her insides on fire. She really hoped Santana wouldn't be upset with the lack of foreplay because lord knows she didn't need any. Perhaps they could get the first one out the way quickly, then take it slow the rest of the night, she mused to herself

They walked three feet and Santana unlock her apartment. Quinn rushed inside and slammed the door, attacking Santana in a bruising kiss. She nipped and sucked on her lips as she ridded the girl of her jacket. They both stepped out their heels at the same time then fumbled around removing more clothes. Quinn's jacket landed somewhere just as she searched for the zipper to that devilish, blue dress. When she finally peeled it off Santana's shoulders, her jaw went slack.

"Holy fuck," she unashamedly muttered as she took in an eyeful of Santana's bra clad breasts. She continued to pull the dress down and couldn't believe a human that gorgeous actually existed. "Holy fuck…"

"You said that already," teased Santana. She tugged on Quinn's hair to let it loose and when her head rolled back she attached her lips to her neck. Quinn closed her eyes as Santana sucked hard and pulled her zipper down at the same time. Impatiently, she ripped the dress down, and then pressed their lips together again.

Quinn removed her own bra and then Santana's as they ungracefully moved through the apartment. Obviously she didn't know which direction to go. And she was so desperate to feel Santana that she was two seconds from pulling her to the ground when Santana pushed her into a nearby wall. A gasp left her lips at the forced with which her back hit the wall. Santana moved her mouth down to her collarbone, to the top of her chest, to her nipple, which made her gasp for a different reason.

"Santana," she panted out, her chest heaving with the struggle to breathe. "I can't…I need you," she paused when Santana's finger slipped in the side of her panties and her mouth moved to her other nipple. "Now."

Her underwear fell from her body so she stepped out of them, pushing off the wall at the same time. She grabbed Santana's face and smashed their lips together again. Thankfully, Santana guided them to the bedroom, and the bed was right by the door so she pushed Santana on to it. She wanted to worship Santana's body, maybe kiss her from head to toe but she was already so close and she didn't want to risk coming before Santana had even touched her.

She wrenched Santana's panties off and got on top of her. Santana tried to switch positions but Quinn just pushed her back into the bed. She grabbed Santana's hand and stuck it between her legs. Her own hand moved down Santana's stomach until she finally, finally touched her. Santana's resulting moan made Quinn's head spin. She had to bite her lip and squeeze her insides to hold off her orgasm because as soon as her fingers felt the smooth, wet skin, she was ready to explode.

Santana didn't feel around, or tease, she pushed two fingers inside.

"Oh, God!" She gripped the comforter by Santana's head and pushed her own fingers inside the girl beneath her. "You feel so fucking good."

"So do you." Santana spread her legs a little more and closed her eyes.

Quinn almost lost it when she looked down at this Goddess. With her eyes closed, mouth open, and the sounds escaping her, she looked perfect. Her insides squeezed Quinn's fingers and yet again, she had to hold off her climax.

Santana's eyes opened and she pulled Quinn down for a kiss. A kiss, which Quinn could barely participate in. All her senses were on high alert and her body was buzzing with pleasure. Santana hit a spot making Quinn scream and almost buckle on top of her. She flipped them over and grinded down on Quinn's hand.

Her heart kicked in her chest as she watched Santana's large breasts bounce. Her head rolled back and the sounds she was making should be illegal. Quinn's chest burned as she attempted to breathe. She couldn't control it anymore, she had to let go, and when her body started to shake, Santana pumped a little faster, and she bent down to bite Quinn's neck.

"I guess I won," she said with a smile.

"Huh?"

"I made you come first, I won."

Quinn couldn't respond, her brain was basically mush and Santana had stilled her movements but her fingers were still deep inside her.

"Make me come, Quinn."

That was single handedly the sexiest thing on the face of the planet. No one anywhere had ever said anything sexier than those four words, Quinn was sure. Santana rolled her hips a bit until Quinn regained her facilities. Once her hand started to move again, she realized just how wet the other girl was.

Once she found the strength, she flipped them. Everything in this moment was about making Santana come just as she had requested. She played her fingers inside the girl, she kissed and sucked on her beautiful breasts, she moved her mouth down her body, leaving soft kisses. Tasting Santana was a fantasy since the first time she heard her speak at a round table back in August.

She moved her fingers and tasted her at the same time and when Santana came, she savored every drop.

They kissed for a while before Santana flipped Quinn onto her stomach and straddled her. She licked up and down Quinn's back before she fully lowered herself on Quinn's backside. Immediately wetness dripped and Quinn half lost her mind.

"You've got a nice ass for a white girl," Santana said, as she slowly grinded on her, soft breaths coming from her beautiful mouth.

Quinn turned her head, lifting herself slightly. "Seriously?" She asks. Santana bit her lip and gave Quinn the sexiest fucking grin she'd even seen and her eyes had the dirtiest look anyone has ever given her.

"Shut up." She placed her hands flat on Quinn's back and pushed her down into the mattress, her nails seeping into the skin there; Quinn sucking in a breath at the slight pain as Santana continued to ride her. It was the most erotic thing anyone had ever done to her and she wondered what it would feel like to do the same on Santana's perfect ass.

Santana began to bite where her nails just were and Quinn swore she could come just from that. Santana's hips moved faster as her hands pushed into Quinn's back. She came not long after she started and she panted as she lay on Quinn's back. Her lips found Quinn's neck where she kissed and sucked and worked Quinn into frenzy. She got off her, grabbing her legs and forcefully putting her on her back. That hungry look had returned. She took Quinn by the back of her knees spreading her legs, staring.

"It's so pink."

"Seriously?" She asked for the second time that night, sitting up on her elbows, as she admired Santana's luminous eyes shining brilliantly in the moonlit room.

"What?" She looked like an archeologist fascinated by discovering a new bone. "I've never been with a white girl before, it's just different."

She shook her head and flopped back onto the bed just as Santana ran her tongue along her thigh. She ran her tongue around everywhere but where Quinn wanted her and just when she was about to complain, Santana put her mouth on her and she about passed out. She wasn't even embarrassed that it only took probably less than ten minutes of Santana eating her, expertly, to come in her mouth. She didn't stop though; in fact she stayed between her legs moaning while devouring her for three more orgasms.

When it was over, Santana climbed to the other side of her queen-sized bed. They didn't talk, they didn't cuddle. There was nothing to signify this was anything more than a scratch Santana needed someone to itch.

A few moments pass before Santana reaches into her nightstand and pulls out a vape pen. She sucks on it a few times before offering it to Quinn. She's always wanted to try marijuana but she doesn't want to cloud what just happened with inebriation, so she shakes her head. Santana inhales three more times before sitting it back in the drawer.

"How did you know?" Santana asks, her voice far away.

"Know what?"

"That I was gay."

"You smelled like it." The look Santana gives her indicates she wants a straight answer; that this isn't a laughing matter.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I sensed it, Santana. Some people call it gaydar."

"I don't have that."

"A gay person without gaydar is like a fish without water."

Santana laughs a carefree laugh and suddenly Quinn has a new addiction, she could overdose on that laugh. "Yeah, it sucks. I literally can never tell. I couldn't tell with you." She looks over, and in the semi darkness, Quinn saw a split second of anguish.

* * *

><p>The morning after was definitely the definition of awkward, the uncomfortable glances, the unpleasant fact of not knowing what to say, the slightly embarrassed lines on each of their faces. To make matters worse, Quinn had woken up to Santana shifting out of her arms meaning she had held her all night. That wasn't a feeling she wanted to like especially since this will probably be their first and last time waking up to one another.<p>

After leaning up by her elbows and staring down a Quinn like she was some alien beside her, she cleared her throat and asked if she'd like some coffee. Well, actually, she just said the word coffee and Quinn barely responded before Santana was across her bedroom pulling her robe around her naked frame. She felt ridiculous when Santana returned because she was in her bed, naked, and didn't know what to do. In addition to the fact that her dress and underwear were scattered somewhere on Santana's floor.

Santana handed her a cup of coffee that tasted perfect and she wondered how she got it just how she liked it but never asked how she took it.

"Want some clothes? You can't go back to your dorm wearing your dress. The walk of shame is bad enough without wearing what you had on the previous night," Santana said as she leaned against her doorway.

"Why is it even called the walk of shame? I'm not ashamed I got laid, and do they call it that when it's the guy doing the walking?"

"Good question, I don't know, that's just what they say."

"Who is 'they'," she asked with the black mug to her lips before taking an appreciative gulp.

"People who look like you. Might've been your grandfather, who knows."

"We're back on this 'all whites are evil' thing, huh?"

"Would you like clothes or are you okay doing the walk of just-got-laid in your dress?"

"Have anything with Yale on it?"

Expecting a ride back to campus was apparently too much to ask for, but Santana did pay for the cab she called. They didn't hug or exchange numbers and two weeks went by before they ran into each other again. It was at a screening at the Arts And Science building where they showed a documentary on the parallels between the Hunger Games and low class Americans. The film students did an incredible job and it was no surprise that Santana had been heavily involved. When one of the two students who made the film got on stage to thank everyone, he gave a special thanks to Santana for being so passionate about the issues plaguing America. He told her to stand after he asked the audience to give her a round of applause. It could not have been more adorable how her cheeks flushed and she smiled wide and waved to the crowd. That smile disappeared when her eyes landed on Quinn.

Needless to say she didn't feel like another lecture on her "white guilt" so she left without trying to talk to the girl she's been dreaming about every night for over fourteen days. Someone grabbed her arm on her way back to her dorm and it was Santana asking if she needed a ride. This was odd since they were only about a ten-minute walk from her dorm but she nodded and followed the other girl to her car. They barely even made it past Santana's doorway before they were naked and panting. Quinn didn't sleep over but Santana didn't call a cab, driving Quinn back herself so that was progress, right?

Thus began whatever the hell they were doing. It was the first time in Quinn's life that she had more sex than conversations with someone, which sucked because all she wanted to do was get to know the girl. January turned into February and February turned into spring break in a blink of an eye. She didn't hear from Santana the entire three weeks but she picked her up from the airport two days before classes started again and they barely left Santana's bedroom for forty-eight glorious hours. April snuck up on them as they laid in bed, exploring each other's bodies. This time was one of those elusive moments where Santana didn't get up immediately after they made each other come. It was extremely rare, like when the sun is high and it rains at the same time, it hardly ever happens and if you blink, you might miss it. Maybe she was too spent or maybe she was okay just lying next to Quinn, either way she didn't mind.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Santana snarled when Quinn draped her arm around her torso and put her leg in between hers as she sucked on that vape pen.

"It's this ancient form the Greek gods named…" she paused for dramatic effect and whispered as if it were indecent. "Cuddling."

"We don't cuddle," she hissed, but made no move to get Quinn off her.

"Just shut up and let me cuddle you. You don't even have to do anything, just lay on your back just like this."

She laid her head on Santana's chest and sighed.

"Just like you people."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Santana always, literally always, brings up her distaste for white people. Quinn doesn't mind though because she can tell that Santana at least doesn't hate her. Overtime she realized Santana doesn't "hate" white people at all, she just hates white supremacy. She hates discrimination, and police brutality. She hates the system that affords white males things she has to work ten times harder for. She hates misogyny and all the other social injustices of the world. When she stands on those podiums or milk crates with a bullhorn, she is standing up for the ones who don't have a voice, for those who feel oppressed. Quinn couldn't possibly have more appreciation for the girl in her arms.

"Always think you can make us bend to you ways. _You_ wanna cuddle, so… what? I just put up and shut up, because you said so? Now I have to be subjected to your stupid arm and skinny legs wrapped around me?" She scoffed and Quinn imagined her eyes rolling at Quinn's "audacity", as she often calls it.

Quinn ignored her completely, and Santana changed the subjected. "You're a junior right?"

"And you're a senior," she said, looking up at the girl. Santana rolled her eyes at Quinn's sarcasm.

"I'm graduating next month."

"I know," panic rose in her chest. She'd been trying to avoid thinking about this at all costs. Growing attached to the girl who won't even spend time with her outside of her apartment wasn't smart, but it didn't stop her.

"I'm still debating which graduate program to go to."

"Where'd you apply?"

"I applied and got accepted into the combined PhD programs at Stanford, Harvard, UPENN, Brown, Duke, and Georgetown."

"Oh." That heavy sinking feeling in her gut gained a few pounds.

"And here of course, I think I've secured a teaching job at a middle school not far from here, and I already have an apartment. So staying here makes the most sense but New Haven is so small. I don't fell like I'm doing enough work here."

"But you have events in New York all the time, you do so much good, and you inspire so many other people. I think you're doing a wonderful job. Here."

"I don't know. I have always wanted to live in California," she took a pregnant pause and blew out a short breath. "What do you plan to do when you graduate?"

"I definitely want to do the combined PhD in English Language and Literature."

"Here?"

"Yeah, I love Yale." Quinn put her head back over top of Santana's heart, listening to one of her favorite sounds. Santana's heart beat a little faster and she wondered what was going through her mind. She learned early on, though, not to ask such things.

"Are you…do you see other girls?"

Quinn's eyes widened. She wanted to play it cool but she felt anything but. "Not that I'm complaining but what's with the sudden interest in my life?"

"Just making conversation," Santana's head snapped in the direction of her door when there was three hard knocks on it. "Who the hell?" She threw on an oversized tee and some sweats.

"Surprise!" Quinn heard a woman yell.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing here?" Santana stammered and Quinn hopped out of the bed to get dressed. She really didn't feel like getting into it with whomever else Santana might be sleeping with. The thought of anyone else touching Santana that way made Quinn's stomach turn.

"I can't come see my sister?" Quinn froze with one leg in her jeans.

"Not when you don't tell me first, Sof." Santana said, sharp edges on every letter of each word.

"I did, I told you we were stopping here on my book tour." The stranger, who apparently was Santana's sister, sounded like she moved further in the apartment, but the door hadn't closed yet.

"Could you come back in a half hour, in fact why don't we meet somewhere to eat?" The desperation in Santana's voice tossed Quinn's heart at her feet. Santana couldn't risk her sister finding out she's sleeping with a white girl.

"Santana Maria De Los Santos Lopez, do you have a boy in here?" The sister asked in a scandalous tone. Quinn froze again, she couldn't have heard that right. "I don't care if you have a naked boy in here, you're a grown woman."

Thinking fast, Quinn tip toed to the bathroom and flushed the toilet.

"Not a guy, and not naked," she offered with a wave once she stepped into the living room. Apparently unreal attractiveness runs in the Lopez blood. She was much taller and leaner than Santana, but the resemblance was unmistakable. They shared those dark, intense eyes, and long wavy hair. Those plump, pillow-y lips must be common too because the other Lopez's looked just as full as her sister's. "Santana and I were just tossing some ideas around about her dissertation. She's really excited about getting into all the combined PhD programs she applied to. Quinn," she said as she stuck out her hand. She didn't dare a look at Santana.

"Sofia…"

"My guess is that she didn't want her sister to know that she has a white friend, you know she hates us whites."

"Well that's because she's silly." Sofia said with a laugh.

"No, she's brilliant, white people are really stinking it up and making the rest of us look bad," joked Quinn with an easy smile. When Sofia laughed with her she felt safe to look at Santana who had the funniest look of fear and constipation on her face. "Okay, well why don't I let you and Santana catch up. You should tell her about your ideas, they're brilliant, seriously."

"And what's so 'brilliant' about them?" Sofia challenged.

Quinn said the first thing that popped into her mind. "Well a few months back she work with a few film students on a documentary and she was thinking of doing her dissertation on that. It was about the similarities between the film franchise The Hunger Games and poor class America, which consists of mostly minorities, it was outstanding. She could probably write an award winning dissertation on that." Sofia looked quite impressed and Quinn inwardly sighed with relief. "Okay, well I'm off, I'll see you tomorrow," her eyes landed on a very relieved looking Santana before she turned back to her sister. "It was very nice meeting you."

"Likewise, Quinn, bye."

"Bye, Quinn."

Six hours passed before she heard from Santana. If she was honest with herself, she didn't think she'd ever hear from her again, not with that close call with her sister. A hard singular knock on her door jumped in the middle of her studying for finals. Surprisingly, Santana was standing on the other side. Quinn let her pass through her door then shut and locked it.

"Hey, wha-"

Santana's ridiculously soft lips cut her question off. Normally their kisses are hard and fast, but this was the polar opposite of every other kiss they ever shared. Santana cradled Quinn's cheeks and slid her lips across hers slowly, with so much care. Eventually Quinn wrapped her arms around Santana's waist as they held each other close, neither taking the kiss further than just a kiss. Santana's hands left Quinn's face and her arms wrapped around her neck, leaving no space between the two, kissing her so deeply. Quinn didn't want to get her hopes up but she sure could get used to kissing the other girl like this. Many minutes later Santana pulled away, resting her forehead against Quinn's, her eyes closed. Santana Lopez has the biggest personality of anyone she's ever known, yet she looked so small.

Santana finally spoke, "Thank you,"

"I didn't do anything,"

"You could have…you could have-"

"I'd never do that to anyone, Santana," Quinn pulled back a little but Santana wouldn't look her in the eyes. "May I ask why you haven't told her yet?"

"They're devout Catholics, they'd disown me," sadness filled the little space between them so Quinn ran her hand up and down the girl's back in a gesture of comfort.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"What about Sofia?"

"I don't know, maybe not but she has a big mouth so I can't trust her to not spill the beans."

"So…do you ever think you'll be ready to come out?" Quinn asked as gently as she could. Santana answered by lifting one shoulder, still not meeting Quinn's gaze. "What if you meet a girl you wanna marry?" Her shoulder lifted again. "What if you had children, would you keep your parents grandchildren away from them?" Once again, a small shrug.

"I'll probably never get married anyway because there's no way I'll find a girl to get serious with me unless she's in he closet too. No out and proud lesbian would marry a closeted one."

"Santana…"

She predictably pulled away, walking pass Quinn to the door. "Look, I don't wanna talk about this anymore. I just came ever to thank you."

"You don't have to leave," she pleaded without actually asking her to stay.

"I do actually, I have to finish up my speech for the rally coming up next week." When she was halfway out the door, she looked back at Quinn. "You coming?"

"To the rally? Yeah, of course. Oh, and Santana? I'm not seeing other girls, well I mean I'm not sleeping with anyone else. Just you." With a single nod, Santana closed the door.

* * *

><p><em>You are not in love, you are not in love.<em>

Quinn repeated this in her head while staring at herself in the mirror of Santana's bathroom. It's been a month since the one and only time she saw Santana's vulnerable side, since then she's been her normal non-talkative, hard as nails self. When she showed up about an hour ago, her intention had been to give Santana her graduation gift and ask her what her plans for the summer were. But she was wearing a large tee shirt and no pants so she deposited the large box on the kitchen table and dragged her over to the couch. When she re-entered the living room, Santana was standing over the gift-wrapped box playing with the bow.

"Can I open this already?" Santana whined.

"Sure," she said with a smile. Her heart raced as she waited for the other girl to see what she had gotten her. Santana's smile reminded her of her nephew's whenever Christmas or his birthday rolled around. She looked so excited and child-like, and it was beyond adorable. _You are not in love Quinn, got it?_

The lines of Santana's smile morphed into something else, shock mixed with admiration is the best Quinn could guess. Her eyes were big and emotional and she seemed to be fighting with herself as she bit her bottom lip. She lifted her gift out the box, holding it in front of her face, blocking Quinn's view.

"Do you like it?" She moved to the other side of the table, to Santana's right so she could see that wonderment in her eyes. Quinn look at the photo, that Santana had yet to take her eyes off, too. When she saw the poster of Malcolm X holding a rifle, peering out a window, she knew it was meant for Santana to own. After scouring the internet for places to get it framed, she finally found a small, privately owned art gallery in Philadelphia that specialized in African art. The framework that the owner, Kathy, had done was perfect. The wood was black and sanded to give off a vintage feel, which complemented the black and white photo perfectly.

Santana carefully placed her gift back in the box, biting her lip and shaking her head. Quinn's heart stopped once she finally turned her head, but that was nothing new, Santana makes her heart stop, at minimum, one hundred times a day.

"It's fuckin perfect," her whisper was gentle yet poignant. Santana faced Quinn, grabbing her hands. "I love it."

Her cheeks felt hot and she immediately played down the well thought out gift. "Well, you aren't really that hard to shop for," her eyes rolled over to Santana's bookcase which held about three dozen books relating to her idol, born Malcolm Little (also a framed photo of a young Ossie Davis who Quinn teases Santana about having a odd "man crush" on).

"Do you know the story behind that photo?" Quinn shook her head, feeling irrationally less intelligent. "The FBI was breathing down his back at the time, and so was those following Elijah Muhammad. They had his phone tapped and his wife told him in a conversation that he was as good as dead. Four days after that particular convo, a FBI informant told the feds that it wouldn't be long before Malcolm was 'bumped off'. He was receiving death threats from racists, cops, and Muhammad followers alike. There was an undercover FBI agent who was an aide to Muhammad at the time; he publicly proclaimed that anyone who opposes Muhammad put their own life in jeopardy. And at that time his family was in danger of losing their home in a lawsuit because after he left the nation, they tried to reclaim his house. So here's a man with four daughters and a pregnant wife. They painted him as deviant and a thug when really he was holding that rifle prepared to protect his family. It's exactly what they do to us now. A cop kills one of us and before he's even lowered into the ground, they demonize him." She shook her head with her eyes closed, despair written on her face.

"I have a gift for you too," Santana pulled away to grab something off her kitchen counter. Quinn closed her eyes memorizing what it felt like to have her hands held by Santana's. _No, okay, just no. You cannot be in love with her._ "Are you busy tomorrow?"

She extended a thick, ivory colored envelope with the Yale crest on it.

"I'm sorry it's taken me this long to ask you but I've been going back and forth with asking you and I didn't know if it was okay or if you wanted to come and you don't have to or anything but I thought I'd ask." Her words were rushed and shaky, her cheeks were flushed, and she wasn't making eye contact. And she loves this girl so much she thinks she'll spontaneously combust at any moment now.

_Fuck._

_I'm so fucked._

"Santana, I would love to attend your graduation," she smiled and they hugged.

_Fuck me, I never want to let go..._

* * *

><p>This was a one shot btw. Forgot to mention that. Unless I feel motivated to continue it.<p>

Thoughts?

Follow me on tumblr if you'd like. I'm huzgzforfree. Or you could just go to the link in my bio.

Thanks for reading.


End file.
